Certainty
by notabatman
Summary: You can feel alone even in a room full of people.


Sometimes I still hate him. He helped keep me alive and that's why I hate him. Those days I'm glad to sit in my own house, knowing that Haymitch is doing exactly the same (albeit a lot less sober), and even if I felt like going outside I wasn't all that likely to run into him. Of course some days are better than others and on those days I'm somewhat grateful. I remember him explaining in that gravelly tone of his how even though we had won the games it wasn't over, I had made them angry and I had to prove just how in love I was, how after each speech the first person I'd look to was him waiting for the smile and reassurance that I'd done the right thing, that I wasn't going to walk outside and be executed right that moment.

Then I remember that the Victory Tour will be on my doorstep soon and I won't be able to hide away in my home (neither our old home in the Seam that still _felt _like home, or the new house that only felt welcoming with the smell of my mother's stew on the stove), not from Haymitch, not from Peeta, not from Effie, not from all these feelings of confusion and anger and something that could be hurt milling around in my mind. Peeta hasn't come to visit either and I don't particularly blame him. I can't bring myself to look at him the way I was forced to in the arena, not back in District 12 where I feel comforted by the woods and Gale's smile. The girl Peeta fell in love with wasn't me; I didn't even feel like 'The Girl on Fire' anymore, that flame had all burnt out and now I was just a smouldering pile of ashes that everyone took a three feet step around.

Prim's smile is perhaps the only thing that brings me to life anymore. She still works with my mother to heal the injured and she's good at it, it makes me wish I could stomach the stench of blood and vomit. She's here, within the city limits helping people, really helping them, and all I can think to do is run away into the woods where I know nobody can be watching me.

"_Katniss! Katniss! Help help me, Katniss!"_ My name pierced through all other thoughts in the form of a choked cry, desperate and pained, no longer caring if it led any others to its origin. I stood still for a moment, the crackling of branches nearby breaking the silence that had overcome the forest once more. Then the cry came again and my heart leapt toward my throat. _Rue. _My feet moved without a second thought, crushing the grass and leaves littering the forest floor. _Rue, Rue, oh my god what have they done… _

The trees begin to sparse a little way ahead of me, and I can see something moving between two and the thought that maybe I should stop quickly flashes across my mind but I don't care because my name splits the air again and I run faster. Feet and heart pounding I can feel air trying to force its way into my lungs. Sunlight begins to filter through the leaves above me, the specks of light turning into wide shafts as I near the clearing.

Blood is the first thing I realise. I can smell blood, and it's not natural, not the same smell of blood that comes from an animal's carcass or a human's wound. The smell seems to be seeping through the trees from each and every pore.

"Hello, Katniss."

President Snow. I want to scream at him, I want to yell, then I remember; Rue. "Where is she?" the words sound unfamiliar as they tumble from my mouth; hostile, pained and frantic. And then I see her. A rope has been slung around her neck and she bleeds from a knife stuck into the centre of her chest, her body suspended a foot or so from the ground. Bile rises in my throat and I want to throw up, I want to scream and yell and _stab._ I want to stab President Snow straight through the heart. I turn to look at him but he's gone, and in his place stands Cinna. I barely have time to react; I want to run to him, I want him to tell me it's going to be okay that this is a dream, that I haven't even entered the arena yet.

His lips part in a slight smile but as it grows wider I can see the blood running from his gums, staining his teeth. His eyes glaze over and I run toward him, wanting to do something, anything to save him but his body crumples into the grass and I see the dent in the back of his head and I realise he had no chance, I never could have saved him. As though reading my mind I hear a voice nearby, "You're t'late, Sweetheart. Always too late and y'can't do nothin' to help them."

Haymitch. Haymitch is here in the arena and he'll know what to do. Even if he's drunk he'll know what to do, I think as I turn and run toward him, wanting to feel his arms around me the way they had when I saw them all for the first time after the games. My arms find him and latch on tight as though I was grasping something to keep me afloat in the middle of the ocean. He smells _real_ like liquor and sweat and something else I can't quite place and I manage to utter his name into his chest before I realise that something's wrong.

Suddenly I let go of him and stumble backward and an ugly brute of a dog is standing in front of me, snarling and growling creeping closer and closer. Its grey Seam eyes are looking at something behind me, far behind I can tell and I'm glad. Until I hear Prim's cry.

When my eyes opened with a start I didn't even realised that they had closed and so it took a moment to become orientated with my surroundings again. I wasn't in the arena, that I realised immediately. A fire was lit in the hearth, orange light flickering across the darkened living room except for a darkened shadow standing almost directly above me. I blink a few times and then I realise that it's Haymitch and he's holding an empty wine bottle in one hand and a full one in the other. Thoughts immediately straying to the mutt I had seen only a minute before, his grey eyes in place of the canine's own glinting dangerously, but before I could think to say anything Haymitch has pressed the full bottle into my hand.

The glass is cool in my hand as my gaze flickers down to look at the label; it was one I bought, I had been stockpiling it for a week or so now. I don't even have to say anything for Haymitch to know, because he picks up another bottle (this one half-empty already) and gestures toward the one in my own hand. "Drink." it feels like more of a demand than an invitation but I do what he says.

I take a small sip and the taste that fills my mouth is bitter and disgusting and I want to spit it out but I force myself to swallow it. We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound in the entire room the crackling of the fireplace. I remember now, I had been sitting on the sofa watching the world pass through the window and I must have fallen asleep. How long though, I wondered, how long had I been asleep before the dreams had plagued me and Haymitch had been there to wake me?

A shiver shoots up my spine as though warning me not to keep thinking, not to wonder what had been going to happen next. It was a new dream and it was worse than any of the others, and it makes me wonder what plagues Haymitch's thoughts. Sometimes I _do_ think he has the right idea, blotting away the world with this vile tasting liquor, because if his dreams were anything at all like these then why _would _you want to remember?

Pulling my knees up toward my chest I tilt my head to the side to bring my mentor back into view. He's looking away from me now, toward the fireplace, looking somewhat pensive although it was probably just from the alcohol consumption. "I'm sorry," I manage to say and I almost flinch at the thought that I was apologising. What did I have to apologise for? Nothing. It made me sound weak, like I couldn't handle one small dream. But it wasn't just this dream; I hadn't been able to sleep for weeks.

We lapse into silence again, although Haymitch's gaze has focused on the bottle as he takes another swig from it. Then almost hesitantly he asks, "Where were you?"

At first I'm not sure what to say because the only person I could talk to about this was Peeta because he was _there_, he was dying, he was running, he was hiding. But then I turn to look properly at Haymitch and I'm certain I can see a glint of something like empathy or understanding in his eyes and I realise he's probably never talked to anyone about this either for any number of reasons.

"The Arena…" I start, unsure of what to say to this because what _are_ you supposed to say? It wasn't like Haymitch was somebody you could ever consider talking to without knives being thrown, let alone talking about… this. Then I realise that maybe I said his name, and I'm certain he gives me the slightest nod of his head as though to say yes, because he knew. I can't even think to say anything else, and I don't think Haymitch expects me to.

He shifts and stretches his legs out a little before extending his arm around my shoulders and I lean instinctively in toward him. The dream flashes in my vision quickly and without warning at the sudden proximity and I can feel a choked sob making its way up my throat. I focus on Haymitch to force the feeling away, the closeness of him, the warmth of his body and the rise and fall of his chest, the smell of liquor and sweat that had been so real in my dream but this time also some kind of soap. I can feel his hand slowly patting my back, hesitantly but somehow comforting because I knew that we were both here; together and alone.

"Do they ever go away?" I ask even though I'm already certain of the answer.

He shakes his head and takes another mouthful from the bottle in his free hand, swallows and then answers, "No," and it's in that moment that I realise I appreciate it. The honesty. I nod and take another drink from the bottle still clutched in my own hand, the burning flowing down into my stomach almost welcome now. "But you'll be okay, sweetheart."

My head is resting on his chest and I can't get a perfect view of his face, not enough to tell if his words were completely sincere but I am certain that he believes it. He believes that I'll be okay, that I won't become him, and in that moment I believe it too.


End file.
